The Devil Draws Five
by Sunset Sarsaparilla
Summary: An entirely self-indulgent sandbox piece attempting to smooth over the story elements of Fallout New Vegas through the perspective of a no-nonsense, world-weary courier with slight technophobia and a Southern drawl.
1. Prologue

**The Devil Draws Five**

**Prologue**

I had been a chickabiddy of about six when they looped a noose for Fice Azaro about a beam inside the old crooked radio tower and called on the entire town to come see. I don't rightly recall what they wanted to hang him for or if they was justified, but I do remember Trigg's hand squeezing my shoulder and me feelin' that childish sense of smug-satisfaction for having won the argument that morning. Folk died in the wasteland all the time. My mama had died. It was 'bout time I get used to seein' death happen firsthand.

They propped a three-legged school chair under Fice's bootless feet and Fice obediently canted his chin as they re-checked the rawhide rope around his neck. It reminded me, strangely, of how the tanner's boy used to offer me a boost when I still too short to clamber over his daddy's brahmin fence, or how Trigg used to put his hand on my mama's behind when he let her step into the house first. I remember thinkin' how it all looked so civilized. Like they was politely opening a trap door to hell and just givin' a mister a helpful push on through.

The Sheriff said some words and then asked Fice to say somethin' too. When the man didn't have anythin' to say beyond spittin', the Sheriff kicked the chair and it all fast quit bein' anythin' pleasant.

Fice went swingin', kickin' his feet and makin' all kinds of gurglin' noises in his throat, his face and neck turnin' red, then near purple and bulging. It was his eyes, though. In his eyes, you could see the pure terror of suddenly realizing what you didn't want taken away and wantin' to fight despite knowin' it was too late.

Meanwhile, the rest of us stood watchin', silent as the sentinels of orange stone circlin' our town.

It was a long while before Fice stopped tuggin' the line and went limp, and another bit before the body quit twitchin' altogether. It was just the desert breeze and the rope creakin' on its own. The Sheriff declared Fice Azaro dead, gave a short speech about how law had been upheld that day and the lifeless corpse dropped to the dust like a judge's gavel.

That was supposed to be the end of it.

The other townspeople had turned to go. Trigg had kneeled down to look me in the eye and got a look in his ghoul face like he was meanin' to explain somethin' important. I doubt I would've paid it any mind. I had only just realized I'd been cryin' and I was so preoccupied in my own hate for my fool child tears that my chest clenched up so tight, I could scarcely breathe.

And then, suddenly, somebody somewhere gasped real loudly and started a coughin' up a lung.

It was Fice. He had kicked the chair away from himself, sending it tumblin' end-over-end down the small bluff towards where Trigg and I was tryin' to converse. We turned to watch, horrified, as the dead man sat straight up from where he'd fallen and looked deliriously about as if he'd just been woken from a long nap.

Panic set in immediately. Somebody behind us gave a shout and then somebody else opened fire and all too quick the top of the Lynch Hill was nothin' but a cloud of sand and a symphony of bullets and gravel ringing off the rusted beams of the radio tower. One of them ricocheting bullets bit Trigg in the arm as he scooped me up and spun us around to act as my shield, while another bullet shallowly grazed the side of my forehead like a burnin' kiss. It hurt like hell and I felt slick, oozing warmth slipping down the side of my face, but I didn't cry out. I was too shocked. I clung to Trigg, my eyes wide open and my nose jammed against the breastplate of his armor, smelling blood, sweat and boiled leather, listenin' to the sound of all hell breakin' lose.

When the dust finally cleared, Fice was sittin' right where he'd been. His shirt was bloody and full of holes and half of his hair and his skin missin' where a bullet had scalped him, but like a boot lickin' radroach, he was still alive. He looked me square in the eye and grinned a mouthful of blood before Trigg un-holstered his magnum, cocked it, and blew a pit the size of a bottle cap between the bastard's eyes.

After that, nobody had any idea what to make of what had happened. Some folk blamed the sheriff for givin' the rope too much slack and not breakin' the neck, but none of them had an explanation for how Fice could've survived the lead storm that followed after. The Iron Horse traders in town insisted that Fice had been sent back from the Sky Vault with a message, but nobody could agree on what that message was or whether or not it'd been delivered. Trigg, of course, bein' the closest authority on overstayin' his welcome above snakes and on the fickleness of Mother Nature, dismissed it entirely.

"Somebody gotta pull a flush every once in a while," he'd say to people who disagreed. "Don't always happen, but it happens."

I wanted to believe him too. It was somehow easier to accept life not bein' anythin' more than an impersonal toss of a die than it was to believe in any kind of schemin' puppeteer god pluckin' all our strings for his amusement. Askin' why's and what for's rarely brought nothin' but more unanswerable questions and I wasn't one for philosophizing.

Yet, for months all I could dream of were bloody scalps and bleeding mouths and giant holes in the middle of foreheads that only ever widened and threatened to swallow me right up. I dreamed of my Ma climbin' back out of her grave and comin' back to tell us we made a mistake and Trigg shootin' her. Sometimes, Ma and I even switched places but I had the benefit of knowin' better than to go back into the house and went wanderin' places instead.

The graze wound on my head eventually healed up pretty nice and after a while, even after I had some sun, you'd still really need to squint to see the scar.

But it marked me nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 1 - One Card Short

**Chapter One**

* * *

Sometimes you get and sometimes you get got.

And this time, I got got.

I got got _good_.

Problem was, I couldn't remember much of anythin' specific about 'this time' or what that 'gettin'' precisely entailed. Mighty frustratin' that I should be able to recollect things as right stupid as cuttin' my thumb bloody skinnin' a gecko at age nine but forget almost everythin' that happened as far back as yesterday. Or maybe it was a year ago? Three years ago? As much as five? Hell, almost _all_ of it was tumbleweeds instead of pictureshows and it made my head ache just thinkin' about tryin' to lay it all out end to end. I guess I always figured the fresher the memory, the easier it'd be to call on, but Doc was right quick to correct my misconception and insist it were the other way around.

Not that it were unexpected, he had said, given what I'd been through. Wasn't everyday that somebody wheeled over a half-dead body they'd dug up from boothill and demanded he start performin' miracles. Maybe way out west in California, but Goodsprings just wasn't that kind of town. I told him it had to be, because here I was, a livin' breathin' miracle, up and tap-dancing not four days after a complicated surgery.

It made absolutely no sense, o' course, but I'd long since made peace with the fact that few things did. We was livin' in the shadow of the old world and if you'd seen half of what I'd seen out there, you'd quickly realize that nobody ever thought to make any of them fancy vaults for Brother Normal or Mother Wit. Sister Sense just didn't have a fork's chance against a Deathclaw.

'Course, it wasn't just the mutated critters out there you had to worry 'bout.

As I heard it told, somebody had ambushed me on the road jus' outside of town. Somebody then tied me up, dug me a grave, and tried puttin' two windows in my skull. Given that the doc determined the shot had been fired at point blank, that somebody must've been either a drunk or a wall-eyed idiot.

Fuego'd me a nice, fleshy state map of a pre-war California from the side of my skull to outer eye-socket, though.

"Raiders," I guessed, examinin' the Doc's handy stitch-work in a polished metal plate. Bunch of low-lives were as common in the wastes as findin' sand in your boot. They mostly preyed on caravans and travellin' merchants, but they weren't shy of fuckin' with anybody.

Except Super Mutants. But nobody wanted to fuck with them Super Mutants.

"Raiders ain't the kind to bury their victims," the ol' bonesaw replied. He reached into the front pocket of his overalls to produce a folded slip of paper. "I'm thinkin' you was carryin' somethin' meaningful to somebody a bit more... civilized."

Apart from my skivvies and an ol' rusted bullet on a ball chain, Doc explained he also found a recently dated delivery order for the Mojave Express on my person. Taking the proffered paper into my hand, I looked it over with a squint and confirmed that that was indeed my name, 'Joan Holliday' printed neatly under the type that read, Courier #: 0006. Accordin' to the order, I'd been on my way to New Vegas to deliver some sort of platinum chip.

'Course, I didn't remember ever workin' for the Mojave Express. Didn't even know I was the type to play messenger on account of how many times people ignored the ol' adage about shootin' 'em. What I did know, however, was that the 250 caps promised upon successful delivery was nothin' to sneer at.

'Specially now since I couldn't decide whether my pockets were shallower or emptier than the grave I'd left behind.

Fortunately, the Doc was one of them genuine harp pluckin' saints. In addition to takin' on the entire expense of surgery and all the stimpacks and painkillers it took to get me back on my feet again, the ol' mustache also volunteered to pony up some fabric to cover my poor broke ass.

Unfortunately, a faded blue vault jumpsuit was the only thing in the house we found that looked like it would suit me proper.

"Twenty-one?" I asked, runnin' my fingers over the yellow polyester number stitched onto the back. I recognized the design from a pre-war magazine I had flipped through once. "Your wife was a vault daisy too, Doc?"

"Actually, that one's mine," Doc replied. He was strokin' the ends of his hoary ol' cookie duster, the universal sign of a man in thought. "You're taller and a bit broader in the shoulders than Maude was, hers wouldn't fit right."

I shrugged and pressed the swath down over the length of me. I'd always been teased for bein' built as strong as a bighorner calf. An early life of skilled ranchin' and rangin' had left me densely muscled and lusty rather than the usual lank and leather of most wastelanders. Since I'd turned sixteen, I could look most men straight in the eye.

"Yeah, well, I reckon I'd always been a bit more Red Tanja than ¡_La Fantoma_!" I said. At the doc's puzzled expression, I chuckled. "Pre-war funny pages, Old Timer. My fa— Trigg used to collect them."

"I see," said Doc in a way that showed he clearly didn't. He frowned "Look, Miss Holliday, I know you're chompin' at the bit to get on and get going, but I'd rather you stay in town a little while, get more of your bearings before you hit the road. It can get pretty mean out there."

"Not as mean as I'll be if you keep insistin' on me stayin' cooped up in here lookin' at anymore of your bad art, Old Man," I told him and then smiled.

It'd been a good while since anyone had taken on such a kind interest in me. Trigg had stepped in shortly after Ma died, but he'd never been the coddlin' sort and I'd be willin' to wager that few folks out in the wastes cared as much as Doc Mitchell did. The man had tried given me a _psychology_ test, for Sue's sake. Vaultfolk were sure funny iguanas. If a wastelander could stand up and dust themselves off without losin' their balance, they was fit to fight.

"I'll be fine, Doc," I assured him. "Soon as I get my paws on some proper shootin' irons, there won't be a bad box I can't climb out of."

"Well," Doc said with some resignation, gettin' up from his chair, "if your mind's made up, your mind's made up. I guess all that's left to do is complete the look. Here."

He took hold of my left hand and snapped an electronic device onto the forearm. The contraption weighed a lot less than its clunky appearance would dictate and I flinched as I felt it hiss and mold to my skin, the display screen bootin' up immediately, amber letterin' on dark grey.

"Personal Information Processor or Pip-Boy," Doc explained at my obvious consternation. "Standard issue to all of us 'vault daisies,' as you so colorfully put it. Ain't much use to me now, but wandering the wastes as a travelling doctor, it was a hell of a life saver."

"Ah, thanks," I said, tryin' not to look at the thing like it were a rattlesnake in my pillowcase. I was a decent tinker when it came to weapons and simple tech, but anythin' more complicated than a radio earned a side-eye from me.

Still, I wasn't the type to go lookin' a gift gun in the barrel neither.

"I'd still feel better if you stopped in to see Sunny Smiles at the saloon before you left," Doc went on as I continued to puzzle over my new thing-a-ma-jig. "She can give you a quick refresher course on surviving in the desert. Like I said, all the lights on the upper-story seem to be on, but—"

"I'll go see her," I promised quickly. At this rate, I was worried he'd talk me back to that darn Vic-O-Matic machine and those high-fivin' inkblot bears and we'd start this whole square dance all over again. I swear I'd never seen a man damn more interested in what was under a woman's cap instead of up her skirt. "You've been mighty charitable, Doc. Don't rightly know how I'll ever be able to repay you."

"No need to, Miss Holliday, it's what I do. Live long and live kind, is all I ask. Besides," he added after a moment, his face softenin' a little. "I know what it's like, having something taken from you."

The way he was eyeballin' the blue material draped over my arm, I got the idea that he wasn't necessarily thinkin' 'bout the loss of his late wife. I decided I wasn't goin' to pry. Just 'cause I couldn't remember them at that moment didn't mean I didn't have any demons of my own.

Or maybe that had been Doc's point all along.

After changin' into my new digs and carefully packing away a couple of stimpacks and other essential care items—including the doc's grudgin' donation of a carton of Big Boss cigarettes to the June Holliday Raspy Voice Foundation—I thanked the old man again before finally steppin' out into the blindin' sunlight for the first time in days.

Goodsprings, I discovered, was a sleepy, little one-brahmin ghost town. One brahmin and five big horners, if you wanted to get technical. Most of the ruined ranch houses seemed like they was abandoned for a long time—even by usual standards—and despite it bein' the middle of a balmy good mornin', there was nobody millin' about makin' any hay. From my vantage point on the hill where Doc's house was situated, I counted two yards growin' crop and the only buildings lookin' like they had any kind of regular use were, not unexpectedly, the saloon and the general store. An old school house and a boarded up gas station loomed on the opposite edges of the town like a pair of forgotten spectres too lonely to care.

It was sad, really. Without enough people to keep it at bay, it was just a matter of time before the desert would slink on in like a junkyard dog and put an aggressive claim on the place.

But that was the law of the wasteland. If you didn't stake yer claim, somebody else would stake theirs and chew you up too while they was at it. If you didn't have big teeth, you damn better well have had big balls.

And also a gun. But it was always a good idea to carry a gun.

Stickin' an unlit smoke between my teeth in anticipation, I picked my way down the bluff toward the town proper, checkin' mailboxes as I went for some kind of readin' material and pocketin' anything else of use. Mailboxes were usually where people would leave compensation for their mail delivery folk, usually a few things to tide them over between this town and the next. Considerin' I was apparently one of them now, I took the items I found as payments in advance.

'Course, I wasn't expectin' to find anythin' too special. Even with Doc's generosity accounted for, I knew the amount of caps and barter junk I'd manage to scrimp together wouldn't be nearly enough to buy me anythin' of good use at the supply ranch. Chet, the store-keep, turned out to be a stingier sort than I expected and a self-professed, two-time New Vegas loser. While his eyeballs dropped to follow the tantalizin' line of the lowered zipper on my new vault pajamas, his prices didn't.

For a moment, I considered playin' up my sob story since he immediately seemed to recognize who I was ('hey, you're that courier the doc rescued...') but I thought better of it. However way I wanted to skin that lizard, I'd still need to find me some caps and some quick work to supply 'em for me and I decided that I rather avoid givin' Mister Moustachio any lascivious ideas.

I traded in an ashtray, a baseball mitt and a couple of burned books for a few caps, matches, and a Sunset Sarsaparilla and then stepped back out onto the veranda to light up and think.

Now, to tell you true, apart from gettin' out of town I didn't really have much of a plan. Doc said it was possible for my memories to eventually return on their own, but he also said there were no guarantees. My most recent, significant memory was leavin' the Redlands and the hell if I knew how long ago that was. Beyond that, it was all a big empty. I didn't know how long I'd worked for the Mojave Express or what I did, where I'd been or who I was even before that.

And when yer head's full of mysteries like that, all you can do is try an' keep things simple.

'Course, it rarely ever works out that way, does it?

I lifted my arm to consider the Pip Boy do-hickey again. Doc briefly showed me how to scan notes but I'd already forgotten how to bring them up again. Supposed to keep things simple, my foot. If all else failed, I could probably sell the darn thing. Maybe buy me somethin' practical, like a boss speed-loading man-stopper or some fine combat leathers. A personal, computerized assistant just seemed like a bunch of Vault-tec tenderfoot hoity toity to me that made about as much sense as tits on a...

... Hey! This thing had a _radio_!

Standing there in front of the general store with my head bowed over my forearm, smoke curlin' from the corners of my mouth, I was so engrossed in adjustin' the tuner that I hadn't noticed anyone (or anythin') creepin' up the path until somethin' with a real _big_ shadow unexpectedly swallowed up the sun shinin' over my shoulder, givin' me afright.

"Howdy pardner!" said an overly cheery, tinny voice. "Might I say you're lookin' fit as a fiddle!"

Now, I reckon that I've seen my share of strange things in life—front row seats to a 'Reaver Dance' in the desert entirely notwithstandin'—but this was the first time I'd ever laid orbs on a mono-wheeled whacker box with shoulder pads hangin' out over the side of a porch. The thing's display screen showed a caricature of an old world cowboy with a cigarette jauntily stickin' out the side of his mouth in a near direct parody of the way I was currently holdin' mine and seemed much too jovial in disposition to venture into anywhere but uncanny valley.

"What in the Sam Hill..." I took an uneasy step back, said cigarette droppin' from my lips in surprise. "And what the blazes are you supposed to be?"

"Pardon my manners, ma'am," the machine replied (rather politely at that), tiltin' forward in what I reckon was supposed to be a facsimile of a bow. "I'm a PDQ Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B, but you can call me Victor. Mighty fine pleasure to be finally makin' your acquaintance!"

"June Holliday," I said, lettin' my hackles droop a little as I recognized the name. "You mus' be the one that dug me out of that grave."

The doc had casually mentioned my rescuer bein' a 'metal feller' and I gave myself a mental kick for not guessin' he meant 'robot.'

"That's right!" Victor's screen buzzed with static for a moment and the cowboy image on screen gave a happy bounce."I was out for a stroll that night when I heard the commotion up at the ol' bone orchard. Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs as I laid low. Once they ran off, I went to see if you were still kickin'. Turns out you were, so I took you over to the doc right quick!"

"My knight in titanium alloy armor," I murmured. My eyes flicked toward the dark red smear across the left 'shoulder' of its unit and got a shudder. I reckoned I should've been more grateful, but the mental image of my weak and battered body in the singular care of an overly animated bucket o' bolts bothered me in too many ways to name. "Well, er, much obliged to you cowboy. Did you happen to get a good look at the jack who attacked me?"

"Well, as I recall there was actually three of the rascals..."

"Three?"

"Yes ma'am. Pair of duck's and an ace all dressed up in his best bib and tucker... "

"Checkered suit," I said automatically. I gingerly touched the doc's careful stitch-work just under my hairline again and winced. The moon had been overly large that night and I remembered it had been cold. I _think_ I recalled chafing against my wrists and there being more than one voice, but... the memory was still too vague. It was like reachin' for ghosts and phantom nickel nines...

"Yep," Victor confirmed. "Fancy pants. The big boss callin' all the shots—er, so to speak," he added quickly.

"Hmm," I said. It probably shouldn't have, but it did make me feel better knowin' that it took at least more than one bastard to get a jump on me. "Know anythin' about him or his friends?"

"That I don't," the robot replied, actually soundin' disappointed. "But some of the fine folks in town might be able to help you with that."

I frowned. So far the only 'fine' folks I'd seen were the doc and Chet and as far as I could tell, that was already half the town. If the robot that was there directly didn't know much of anythin', I wasn't likin' my chances.

Still, the checkered threads was _somethin'_ at least. A suit like that meant money, meant Vegas. If only I could figure out which way they went, it'd be easy pickin' the ol' doiley out from the rest of the lizards and scorpions. No self-respectin' wastelander went about cuttin' a swathe across the Mojave in a god damn city slicker.

There was also a chance that I might remember somethin' else besides.

"Y'might want to try askin' Trudy in the Prospector next door," Victor added helpfully. "If there's anythin' goin' on around town, she'd know about it."

"Thanks, Victor," I told it as sincerely as I could.

"Don't mention it. Just glad to see you all aces again. " The robot raised a clamped hand in farewell. "Happy trails!"

I watched as the thing pivoted 'round and went wheelin' on its way up the opposite road. The path curved and it eventually disappeared behind one of the ranch homes. Like I said, I had never taken any kind of cotton to machines, but I figured maybe I could make an exception for that one.

Maybe.

Stickin' another 'Boss' between my teeth for composure, I turned to head for the saloon.

* * *

**Note**: It's been a while since I've written anything (a long, long,_ long_ while) but I find having a pre-set story structure in place is helping me get back into the swing of things. This chapter was originally much longer, but I can't go on posting 7,000 words all in one go, can I?

Any thoughts or feedback is immensely appreciated. When you're still feelin' a bit shaky using your writer legs again, a little bit of support goes a long way, so thank you. I usually do try and return the favor too.


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